


Back to Back

by Bliss_Smith



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Feelings, Gen, Sisters, but sisters just the same, relationship angst, unlikely ones, whoa oo oo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-10 23:49:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15302763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bliss_Smith/pseuds/Bliss_Smith
Summary: Morrigan's ritual/how that OGB option worked out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is probably one scene that doesn't need another telling but ... I'm so mad about the ham-handed way it played out that I simply must.

Something is growing. Building. As they walk out of Riordan's room, she can feel whatever it is gathering momentum and she knows something is going to break. Or more likely, she's going to break something. Tear Redcliffe Castle down with her bare hands, even. She's hurt and furious and so scared she doesn't know how to cope with any of it. But there isn't much choice, she has to suck it up. Alistair has enough on his mind without her falling apart and giving him more.  

  

He knows, though, can see right through her brittle attempts to hold it together. He pushes his own heartache away to step forward and reach out to her, to start the soothing process they both need. He doesn't make it. Before he can touch her, a Knight comes around the corner and heads for them.  

  

"Your Majesty, Sir, the Arl needs you downstairs."  

  

He leaves without waiting for an answer. She’s certain her expression has a lot to do with his hasty retreat. Even with no mirror, she suspects it’s as unpleasant as it feels, and Alistair’s concerned eyes confirm that suspicion.   

  

"Go relax, love, take a bath and brush your hair until I can get back, okay? Can you do that for me?"  

  

She wants to cry at the gentle command in his voice. Everyone who thinks she's the stronger one of the pair needs to see them like this: Miss Run the Show falling apart at the seams while Mr. Follow the Leader steps up and shoulders the responsibility for everything. He's just as wounded as she but he never hesitates to do what needs to be done.  

  

She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin, determined to do right by him, as he always does for her. "I'll be okay, love. You go be King as long as you need to."  

  

~*~  

  

She’s startled to find Morrigan in her room but not surprised. She’s always known she is holding something back, hiding behind face paints and a permanent scowl, but all she’s ever been able to do about it is and wait and trust that her friend—her sister—would one day feel safe enough to tell her. Morrigan has apparently decided that time has come.  

  

She sees that Morrigan—of all people—has been crying. Whatever this is, it won’t be pretty.  

  

For a moment she has to fight the urge to leave. Just throw up her hands and walk away, let the avalanche come on and bury her, bury them all. She’s done, used up, dried out, ready to lie down and not get back up. It passes, as always. It’s never more than a brief flight of fancy.  

  

“I love you, you know that, but does this have to happen right now? I’m ready to give up as it is. I don't know that I can take another blow tonight, even for you.”  

  

“Will it help to know my blows come with hope?”  

  

“Unless the hope is all of us getting out alive, no.”  

  

Morrigan’s change of expression tells her what she needs to know. What’s making her want to puke isn’t despair; it’s pure hope. The second she saw Morrigan in her room, it started blooming, the idea that maybe magic could give them a way out. But there’s always a price, yes? Just how high is the price for them to survive? How much will she pay?  

  

“Whether you were listening at the door or just know some other way, I’m guessing you’re aware of what was just laid at our feet?”  

  

“That is the first blow, I am afraid. I have always known.”  

  

It is a blow, the kind that hurts more as it sinks in. The only consolation is watching similar pain roll across Morrigan’s face. It’s not much, but she knows it’s only fair they both bleed over this.  

  

“And instead of telling me, instead of giving me a chance to find a way around this, you just stayed quiet. Maker’s breath, Morrigan, why would you do that? I would have had a year to work on this.”  

  

She gets her answer again, gets a few of them, some for questions she hasn’t even asked. She’s good at reading people—it’s one of the things that enabled her to start from next to nothing and raise an actual army. Morrigan is making this incredibly easy for once. Is that so she doesn’t have to actually admit this betrayal, or because there are more coming?  

  

“You didn’t want me to find another way. You waited until this very moment to ensure I’d have no option except the one you’re going to offer.”  

  

“I could argue there is no other way, you would have searched in vain, but yes. And while I feel the need to apologize, I shall not. We both know I’ll not really mean it. I am sorry to hurt you, but your pain was never enough to turn me from this course. I made my choice too long ago to change it.”  

  

She knows she should be worried about the numbness creeping across her, but she doesn’t want to spare the mental energy for it. In its own way this is worse than the Deep Roads had been. She needs all she has to hold herself together.  

  

“Just tell me one thing, the whole truth this time, if you’ve ever been a friend to me: what else has been a lie?”  

  

“My only lies have been ones of omission, about why Mother saved you and sent me with you, that this was the plan all along.”  

  

“All that about Flemeth? Having me go kill her to save your life?”  

  

“All true. On my word. Had you not, the only difference in this moment would be the one standing here in this body would not care about you like I do.”  

  

She closes her eyes, trying to get a grip, to resist the urge to walk across the room and slap the paint off Morrigan’s face. She knows she should walk away; nothing good is going to come of whatever Morrigan has up her sleeve, but she can no more do that than give up. If there’s a chance—any chance—she must listen to what she has to say.  

  

“Okay. Start talking.”  

 


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Morrigan is finished, she’s completely numb, and she’s unsure if this is good or bad. She is sure only that she never should have let her talk at all. Like cats and bags, genies and bottles, it’s far too late for that regret.  

  

She thinks her head might literally explode; her hurt-rage and frustration are so massive, she simply can't process it all. The only thought that doesn't feel like an arrow in her brain is a dim gratitude that Alistair didn't walk into the room with her. She's glad duty took him elsewhere.  

  

"Before we go any further, I just want you to know you were dead fucking wrong. Had you come to me, there would have been other options." As that sinks in more, she finds herself pacing, running her hands through her hair simply to keep them from circling Morrigan's neck. "Maker's breath, there would have been a city full of options."  

  

Morrigan scowls but not quickly enough to cover the flash of anger and wounded pride. She hates being wrong more than anything. "What are you talking about? There are no cities full of Gray Wardens, not in Ferelden."  

  

She stops and stares, attempting to tamp down her anger. She doesn't do a very good job. "Have some facts, Mor. The night of the Landsmeet I was unofficially named Warden-Commander for Ferelden. Riordan made that decision right before he told us he found everything that was missing from the Warden's warehouse in Denerim. We now have the means to do the joining ritual." She stops and takes a breath, but her voice still comes out rough and vicious. "We could have more Gray Wardens for this battle. He thought we knew why that would be an important thing."  

  

She's so distraught by what she's saying, by what it means, that she can only pace the floor to keep from throwing herself at Morrigan. "You could have had your fucking pick of men for this fucking ritual if only you'd told me. I told him no, that recruits weren't going to be on my fucking head."   

  

She stops as that sinks in, as it all does. There's so much to unpack she thinks she might throw up on the floor.   

  

She told Riordan that she wouldn't be responsible for signing others up to her fate, especially not at this point, but she knows she would have cheerfully lined them up had she known about either of the evening's conversations. Would have conscripted them, even, poured the damned potion down their throats if she had to. Apparently, her moral repugnance for the Wardens and their ways isn't stronger than her own selfish desire that she and Alistair make it out of the Blight alive. That leaves her shaking even more, the knowledge of how easily she'll sacrifice others. 

  

That becomes secondary as she sees the way Morrigan is looking at her. Is it triumphant vindication, or hope to see something that will allow her to hate her, to stop being hurt by the betrayal and just be mad?  

  

"Rest your conscience, Commander Cousland. I would not have agreed to that. My pick was already made."  

  

The implications of that leave her speechless. In a city full of potentials, she would choose the man she hates?  

  

"Why? You hate Alistair so much you would force this decision on him? Or do you just want to stick this particular knife in me?"  

  

"I do not hate him." Morrigan's words are clipped and quiet, given grudgingly. "Nor am I after his throne. My reasons are purely pragmatic. Mother was aware of the possibility that other Wardens might come into play before the end. She was adamant that Alistair be the father. Whatever her reasons, I trust they are valid."  

  

“Why did you come to me with this? He's the one who will have to pay the cost, so why are you here?”  

  

More answers in her face and she can’t help but wonder if she is doing that on purpose.  “Say it. Stop making me answer for you. You’re stabbing me in the back; at least stand up while you’re doing it. I deserve more than this from you.”  

  

A flash of anger, and she can't help but be happy to have landed a blow of her own.  “I am here because I have spent the last year being the biggest bitch I could be to him. Do you think he will listen to anything I have to say?”  

  

That gets her finally. Her hand is moving before she can stop it, reaching out to grab the closest thing and throw it at Morrigan’s head. “Say it, damn you, admit the whole truth, not just your convenient answer.”  

  

Morrigan ducks the hurled book and takes two steps forward, hands clenched, face dark with fury. “I’m here because he will not say no to you.”  

  

And there it is, the worst betrayal, that she would be set up for such a thing. “You’ll not put that on my head, Morrigan; I’ll fucking die before I coerce him into that kind of decision."  

  

"And what if it is not you who dies? What if he makes the killing blow? You will trade a dead lover for a spotless conscience? I can not believe how selfish you are. You are not even willing to give him the opportunity to save his own life?"  

  

That's the last straw—the immediate image of Alistair dead on the ground. She reaches out again, this time grabbing the table the book had been on. It's sturdy and well made, far too heavy to just pluck up and toss like a bean bag, but that's what she does, sending it crashing into the wall. She’s over an edge she didn't even know was near, every bit of ignored anger from the last year coming up to take over.   

  

The only thing that saves her is Alistair's voice from the doorway, his angry, bewildered  _what the fuck is going on_  stops her in her tracks. She's so surprised to hear him say that word, she momentarily forgets what's happening.  

  

She turns to tell Morrigan to leave, but she's already on her way out the door. She fights the impulse to throw something after her. Alistair seems to be fighting a similar one, looking like he wants to punch her for good measure. Instead he gently shuts the door behind her.  

  

He starts to come across the room until she holds her hand up. She can't talk yet, maybe won't be able to at all, but she can shake her head and let her expression speak for her. He understands her just fine, of course he does. He's spent the last year getting to know everything about her, in intimate detail. He reads her like a book he's written and leans back against the door to wait.  

  

The words won't come, no matter how she tries. She can only shake her head and try not to cry.  

  

"Tell me what happened, love."  

  

She can't. Or won't. The distinction doesn't matter. She won't lie to him, which leaves her with nothing to say that won't lead to telling him everything, won't lead to her performing Morrigan's extortion. She shakes her head again and lets the tears fall.  

  

She keeps thinking about the night they finally got around to talking about sex. The look on his face when he admitted the reason he never pursued any of the willing young ladies was a fear of pregnancy. Of being forced into marriage with someone he wasn't completely in love with just to prevent his child from wearing his stigma.  

  

Blood magic, a bastard child, and Morrigan—the three things he hates most. How can she ask him to do that for her? Or think he'll do it for himself?  

  

"Do I need to pull rank?" His voice is soft as silk, but she can't pretend he isn't ready to do it. Nor can she forget she meant it when she pledged her complete allegiance to him as her King. She's not so full of herself to think that just because he hasn't doesn't mean he won't.  

  

"I can't." She tries to say it simply but it's a wounded wail of pain. She cries harder when she sees the anger fall on him.   

  

He's so weary, just as tired and wrung out as she, and she can see what this is costing him. But he's a better leader than she'll ever be, a better person even. He pushes it all aside and manages to speak evenly. "Then I'll have to ask her."  

  

She wants to tell him no, order it, demand it, but she can't bring herself to do that either. She knows he needs to find out one way or another, no matter how much she doesn't want him to. All she can do is sink to the floor and put her face in her hands, try not to wail as he leaves the room.


	3. Chapter 3

She thinks she should get up and do something, start working on that bath, or brush her hair. Wasn't she supposed to do those things for him? Before her sister decided to go ahead and stab her in the back.

They are sisters, bound together by something stronger than blood or any familial ties. That's what makes it hurt so much, to know Morrigan's love is equal to hers, and know that she still chose this.

She doesn't harbor anger about the initial choice. Who was she to Morrigan? Some random stranger from a different world, one who held an opposite outlook on life.  By the time they left Lothering, they could have easily been well on their way to enemies, so different in nature are they, but somehow they managed.

 

A memory floats by, one she doesn't want to look at but simply can't ignore. They were on their way back to camp, just the two of them for some reason she can’t remember and ran into a group of darkspawn. They were tired, unprepared, and sorely outnumbered, but they worked together flawlessly, like they had been doing it their whole lives, their laughter and banter as natural as their tandem attacks. When it was over they were so proud, of themselves and each other, and as they laughed and locked each other in a spontaneous hug they both knew they were the truest of sisters. That no matter the differences they could count on each other, always.

After that, an even worse memory: the conversation they had after she realized she’ll likely never be able to bear children. She went to Morrigan not because she had to, but because there was no one else she wanted to talk to about it. For all that she loves and trusts Leliana and Wynne it just isn’t a conversation she wants to have with them. They are true friends, but Morrigan has been the only one she could share that rage and heartbreak with.

And here she sits now, with the options down to two: Morrigan having Alistair's child or her likely death.

Riordan had said he would be the one to make the final blow, that his time was up, and this was how he wanted it to end. He no sooner said that than she and Alistair looked at each other with the sure knowledge that it won’t go that way. Riordan will fall too soon, or simply won’t be in the right place at the right time, and it will come down on them.

And only them, because Riordan assumed Duncan had at least told Alistair, and that either Duncan or Alistair had told her and didn't bother to mention it when they talked about a quick and dirty recruitment run through Denerim. It was going to come down on them because yet again she was forced to make decisions without all the pertinent information. Without knowing there was more.

That meant it was going to come down on her.

They've talked about it, she and Alistair. Not often—it's not something that needs a slew of words—but enough to know where they stand. When he agreed to pursue the throne, they made the deal: if it comes down to a choice of who survives, he does. He doesn't want to be King without her but that will be immaterial. They both agree he needs to be King, that Theirin blood needs to retain the throne as long as possible. She must sacrifice herself—and he must let her.

She can't decide what feels worse: that he won't agree to Morrigan's plan, or that he will.

But the time is up on thinking about it. She's knelt on the floor long enough for him to come back.

He resumes his stance, leaning back against the door to watch her. His face is unreadable for once, scaring her in a way she couldn't have predicted. He's not supposed to look like this, so flat and neutral, not her Alistair. He's supposed to wear his heart on his face when he looks at her, always.

"I'm not mad at you, Mistral."

Her thoughts scatter as she tries to remember the last time he called her by name. She's been either  _love_  or  _my love_  for so long now she can't remember a time when he called her anything else. Something breaks in her chest, at the idea that she's no longer his love. That he’ll pull away from her so he can sacrifice her.

She tries to find something in his face, anything to hold on to. He's so carefully neutral he may as well be wax. Doesn't that answer the question?

Is this better or worse? She doesn't know. All she knows is she loves him no matter what, and she must try to make this as easy as it can be for him. He's the one who’ll have to live with himself. At least she knows her heart will stop breaking when it stops beating.

"And I'm not mad at you, Alistair. I understand why you can't accept her offer." She manages to speak softly and keep her voice even but there's no mistaking the pain in it.

That melts the wax, burns off his carefully controlled neutrality to show the pain and anger underneath. The flat crack of his hands slapping back on the door only underscores it. "I can! Maker's breath, how could you ever think I wouldn't? I can and I will if only you will!"


	4. Chapter 4

She knows she needs to say something, do something besides kneel on the floor with her mouth hanging open. All she can manage is the thought, while she tries to process what he's saying, that he just yelled at her for the first time. He looked like that because he thought she was refusing it. That she wasn't saying she couldn't tell him, but that she couldn't accept it.

"It's not my choice to make, that offer. It never was. I'm merely supposed to be the knife at your throat to make you agree. The cost is all yours, my King, and I'll not let her use me to force you into paying it."

“It is your choice. If it affects one, it affects both, and it’s for both of us to decide. That's always been the deal. And I won’t be the only one paying. You think I don't know how this will hurt you too?”

   
Yes, that. The hits just keep on coming and she wonders if there’s going to be a tipping point. She’s so damned tired—of everything. 

“I’ll choose worse for you, my love. You know that, right? This hurts in a way I didn’t think anything could, but it’s nothing against the thought of losing you.”

"I can't be her knife, Alistair; I can't do that to you." 

   
“Do you know what it will do to me to see you dead on the ground and know I could have prevented it? That some lofty idea I came up with was more important than your life? If you die it will be because there is nothing I can do to save you, not because of something I won’t do.”

“It’s not just a lofty idea...” 

“It is. I swore I’d cut off my dick before fathering a bastard because it was easier to believe that was why my life was so bad. I blamed everything on that, when it really wasn’t the culprit. It’s not a fate worse than death. It’s certainly not a fate worse than your death, even with that bitch for a mother.”

He falls quiet and slides down the door to kneel on the floor like she is. He looks heartbroken and scared, so miserable she can't find it in herself to do anything but soothe him. Make it better however she can. She holds her hand out, finally asking him to come to her.

He's there in a flash, like he always is, ready to charge into anything just to be with her. He sits on the floor, and she straddles his lap rather than curls in, unwilling to stop looking at him while they talk. She needs to see everything, needs him to as well. This is too important to mess up; in their shock and exhaustion they’re already misreading each other.

"I spent my whole life thinking  _bastard_  was what made things hurt so much but it isn't. It never was. Every bit of my heartache can be traced back to being. Whatever I was. Disposable. Forgettable. Sent off without a thought because I was never more important than someone else. To anyone. Until I met you, and you showed me what it's like to be wanted. To be loved above all else."

He reaches up for the ribbon in her hair, to slowly untie it. She's not sure which of them is crying more but she thinks they're likely to flood the room before this conversation is done.

How can they do this?  How can they not?

He finds her shield hand and ties the ribbon tight, then holds the other end—and his shield hand—out to her. She can hardly see and can only sit for a moment, eyes closed as she finds a way to get a grip. It's the feel of him under her that does the trick—the solid, sturdy reality of his body, the one that's shielded and delighted her so much that she simply can't imagine what it would be like to be without him again. She opens her eyes and takes the ribbon to tie it around his wrist. Tie them together.

It's her turn to talk and she doesn't know where to start, where to find the right words to articulate this heartbreak. "No matter how grateful I am that being forced into the Wardens led me right to you, I'll always be angry and resentful over the way it happened. It's simply impossible to make a fair decision over the dying body of someone you love. I know that as well as I know how much I love you. And that I would probably rather die than ever see that same resentment in your eyes."

He smiles at her, so sunny and sweet it makes her sob harder. She'll never lose her wonder over him, how he can be dying of love and pain as badly as she and still be so happy, so openly hopeful. "That's such an easy promise to give you, my love. You won't. When the days come that I can't help but wonder what's happening to my child, the only one I'll harbor any resentment for is their mother. And I guarantee it will last only as long as it takes for me to think what it would be like to be without you. I'll always be grateful to both of you, that I'm being given the chance to save your life. Save both of our lives, so we can finally get to the part of our love story without the looming death and destruction."

"Maker's breath, don't, we're not allowed to talk about that yet, you know that." She's trying to joke and not making it, the panic his words bring is fast and strong. They've both been adamant, no talk of the future, no plans other than what must be made. Neither one wants to be left with the shattered dreams of a life they dared to hope for. It's bad enough that they've gone ahead and said forever, that they carved it into each other. To be forced to live with memories of plans made and dreams shared would be even more cruel.

His smile slips away as he lets his free hand find her neck. He's taken to holding her like that, his sword hand wrapped loosely at the base of her throat. It's an innately violent, possessive gesture but he somehow turns it into one of deep devotion. Like everything he does.

"You're sure about that?" She asks. It's a formality, a mirror for however many nights ago when he asked her the same question.

He lets his hand slip down her chest, working his fingers under the top of her leathers to find the healing scar on her chest. "We've always known there's going to be a price for this, love. I'll gladly pay it, this and more."

She lets her fingers do the same, work under his light armor to find the mark she left on him. "I'll tear the world apart with my bare hands for you."

He smiles again, laughter bubbling up as he leans down to kiss her. "And I'll never bet against you doing it."

~*~

After that there's nothing to do but help him get ready. For once they aren't chatty, don't talk each other's ears off as they work through a simple task. Bath times are usually the best, they're either goofy and fun or hot and serious, but this one is something else. It's soft and reverent but it's brutally painful as well, hearts so full of love it only helps pump more blood from their wounds. 

The deepest love and sharpest pain, they're both full of knives over this but they simply have no choice but to keep going, to hold each other up as they bleed. And to try to find enough jokes to make about it.

"What does one wear to give the witch their firstborn?" He holds up a shirt and his cuirass, looking between the two. "Comfort or safety?"

She smiles and points across the room, to a darker set of leather armor. "Wear that one."

He looks at her a moment and she can tell he's trying to figure out what she's up to. All she'll do is smile wider and motion for him to get busy.

It's when she's helping him lace up the cuirass that she leans up to kiss the corner of his mouth. "I guess I never told you why I like this set so much. You look so good it in, like some rakish pirate, a bad boy with a heart of gold, trying to do the right thing while he charms everyone in sight."

He laughs and blushes, as obviously delighted as he is surprised. "And you're sending me off in it … why?"

She tries to keep it light and can't even come close. "I don't know. I'm either genuinely trying to be nice to her or flat out kill her with kindness. Your guess is as good as mine. All I know is I want you to enjoy this as much as you can, and I want you to give her a tumble she'll never forget." She doesn't look up, can only keep her eyes on his chest as she shrugs. "Your part I really mean. I want you to explore this, like you would any new experience. I'm sure you've had a sexy thought about her from time to time, I want you to know I'm completely okay with you taking advantage of this opportunity."

Now he just looks shocked. She lets the silence spin out this time, as she wanders back to the tub to find her hair ribbon.

"You want me to enjoy this. You want her to. The woman who's currently stabbing us in the back."

She's not sure if he's angry or merely distressed at the idea. "The woman who is giving us both a chance to survive, wasn't that how you put it? I don't know if a baby made with hate or sadness turns out any different than one made with pleasure, but I know it can't hurt to be safe on that score."

"Well you have me there."

She comes back to tie the ribbon around his wrist again. When she's finished, she presses his hand against her cheek. “This is the best possible outcome—no one dies, and there will even be new life—but it hurts so much, and there’s just no way around it. The only thing I know to do is make it as good as possible. Bright enough to light the darkness of it."

He cups her face, letting his thumbs find her tears to wipe them away. "I'm sorry I yelled at you."

She has to laugh and kiss him, push herself into the light they create. "Forgiven. If you promise to never call me by name again. That was just plain mean."

"Never, my love."


End file.
